


Survivor

by imagineteamfreewill



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Winchester Comforts Reader, Dean Winchester/Female Reader, Established Dean Winchester/Reader, F/M, Insecurity, Reader-Insert, stretch marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-09-30 23:50:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17233472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imagineteamfreewill/pseuds/imagineteamfreewill
Summary: The reader is insecure about her appearance—mainly her stretch marks—and Dean finds out about it. This is loosely based on the song "Just The Way You Are" by Bruno Mars.





	Survivor

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was posted on my tumblr account of the same name on December 16th, 2014 and was edited on September 18th, 2018.

Once again, you stood in front of the mirror, staring at yourself. Judging yourself. The zig-zagging lines of red and pink across your stomach and your thighs were impossible to ignore. You had tried to ignore them, once. You had tried for so many days, so many years to pretend that they didn’t exist, but they were always there. Cleverly hidden by jeans and sweaters, they were your unseen enemy. They were your ghosts.

You laughed to yourself. Ghosts you could kill. A little salt, a little iron, and some matches, and you were set for life. Stretch marks? Those suckers weren’t so easily gotten rid of. You sighed, pulling your shirt down and stepping into your jeans.

“Are we leaving soon?” you shouted as you opened your bedroom door.

After a second, Sam answered from the other room, “Yeah. Dean’s out putting his bag in the Impala.”

You followed the sound of his voice as he spoke, ending up the library just as he finished explaining that Dean would be back inside in just a minute. Sam was sitting at the end of the library table, researching something for the case on his laptop.

“So what is it?” you asked.

Sam lifted his head, pressing his lips together in a small smile when he saw you standing in the doorway, your bag slung over your shoulder. “Simple salt and burn,” he told you, slipping the laptop into its slim black case. “Probably won’t take more than a day.”

You nodded, secretly relieved. If it was a simple salt and burn, they wouldn’t need you to tag along. As much as you loved hunting, you definitely needed a break now and again. You watched in silence as Sam put away the books he’d been using, his eyes flicking over to where you stood every few seconds. Clearly he was expecting you to say something about wanting to come along, but you had no intention of coming along if you didn’t need to. There were other, more fun things you could do in the time it took them to get there, kill the damn thing, and drive back.

“Alright, Sammy! You ready to head out?” Dean called. You looked up, watching him climb down the stairs from the bunker’s main entrance.

Sam hummed his assent, grabbing his laptop and water bottle from the table. “The car around front?” he asked.

Dean nodded and made his way through the war room, stepping into the library. Once you were in his line of vision, he flashed you a smile and you couldn’t help but smile in return.

“Hey, Y/N. You coming along?”

You shook your head.

“Not today, Dean,” you replied. “Sam said it was a simple one, so I figured I’d stay home and catch up on some ‘me time’.”

Dean nodded, shrugging slightly when Sam caught his eye. They were having another one of their silent conversations, you could tell, but you decided to ignore it in favor of thinking about what you could do now that you’d have the bunker all to yourself. Much to your dismay, however, your mind immediately began to wander back to the image of you standing in front of the mirror in your room, stretch marks on full display.

“Hello? Y/N?” You snapped your head up. Dean was standing in front of you, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion and concern. “You okay?”

You forced a smile, pushing the picture to the back of your mind. “Yeah! Just a bit tired,” you responded, forcing cheeriness into your voice.

Dean watched you carefully for a second, then went back to grabbing Sam’s other bag from its spot on the floor. Both boys hugged you before they headed out, but Dean pressed a kiss to your cheek before pulling away.

“Be safe!” you cried after them.

You barely heard their reply of, “We will!” before the heavy metal door at the top of the stairs slammed shut. Sighing, you turned so your back was pressed against the solid wood door frame, leaning your head back against it and closing your eyes.

The silence in the bunker was almost blissful. The boys would be back in a few days, but until then you were determined to enjoy the quiet that their presence stole from you, as well as get as much done as you possibly could, both productive and otherwise. Not only did Sam and Dean distract you from cleaning, but they distracted you from the things you loved—reading and writing. They were the only two things in the world that could distract you from the way you looked, and that was definitely something you wanted to forget, even if it was only for a few days.

After a few more moments of soaking in the quiet of the room, you crossed over to the shelves and scanned the titles of the books you’d looked through over the past few weeks. You hadn’t had a chance to read through any of them lately because of your schedule of constant training, hunting, and researching, but now was your chance, and you were adamant that you were going to enjoy it. Plucking one from its place, you ran your fingers over its embossed title and hard red cover. It was one you’d been meaning to read ever since you’d moved it, and your heart gave a little excited flutter at the prospects of finally getting to discover the secrets that its story told.

* * *

 

The boys returned two days later. You were fast asleep when they came home, despite the fact that it was the middle of the day; you had stayed up for an entire day, reading book after book and writing story after story, and soon after finishing the last page of your novel, you fell fast asleep, still on top of the covers and still fully dressed.

Your room was littered with crumpled up pages and the table by your favorite velvet chair in one of the Men of Letters’ lounge rooms was piled high with your printed conquests.

Slowly but surely, you began to drift back into the real world, reluctant to give up your sweet dreams and precious sleep. You didn’t hear the boys out in the hallway, talking to each other and putting their things away. They were already in the kitchen by the time you were fully awake, not knowing that you were home, and the halls were once again quiet.

“I should call them…” you murmured to yourself. After a quick glance at your phone to check the time, you gathered your things and headed to the shower room, ready to start your day.

Your shower was quick, and you carefully avoided looking in the mirror as you dried yourself off with one of the faded green towels you’d brought with you when you moved into the bunker. You couldn’t keep away from your reflection, however, and it was at this point you found yourself, watching your mirror image as it copied your movements in the cool glass. The jagged lines on your stomach and legs stood out more than you thought they ever had, and you grimaced.

Tracing them with your index finger, you sighed and wiggled into your jeans and an old flannel shirt, then pulled it up to expose the lines once again. They were embarrassing, and no matter how many times you prayed and wished that looking at them would make them go away, they never did. It only made the picture of them in your mind that much clearer.

You were frustrated. You were frustrated with yourself, with the world, and with those stupid stretch marks, and without warning, tears began to prick your eyes. You were so absorbed in the reflection of yourself and your so-called flaws that you didn’t see Dean silently standing at the entrance to the shower room, his own towel and clean clothes in hand. When you began to cry, he went from curiously watching your actions to reaching out to you, wanting to soothe your aching heart.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he asked, drawing nearer to you.

You turned at the sound of his voice and yanked your top the rest of the way down, simultaneously flustered and furious at him for watching you.

“Dean!” you exclaimed. “What are you doing?”

He shook his head and repeated himself, green eyes full of worry. You considered saying you were okay, but you knew he wouldn’t buy it. After all, he could’ve had a gold medal in ‘pretending to be okay’ himself.

“Not really,” you admitted, your voice quiet. “I’m just frustrated.”

He nodded, trying to understand, but confusion was written all over his face as he set his things down on the countertop. Coming up behind you, Dean wrapped his arms around your waist.

“Frustrated with what?” he murmured. His lips brushed against your neck as he ducked his head, and you let out a sigh at the feeling of his stubble scratching the skin there.

_If only you knew how perfect you are…_

Shaking your head a little, you replied, “It’s nothing.” You couldn’t help but scoff at your answer, not even believing yourself.

Dean was quiet for a second. His eyes met yours in the mirror before he pressed a kiss to your shoulder, the flannel muffling the feeling. More than anything you wanted to tell him what was going through your head, but you’d never told anyone how you felt about your stretch marks—not even your best friend.

“I’ve just got stretch marks and they’re kind of embarrassing,” you finally said.

The admission held thick in the air, and Dean considered this.

“Embarrassing? I don’t understand, Y/N. Stretch marks are… well, they’re hot. It means you’ve grown and they’re almost like battle scars. See this?” Dean held out his arm, rolling up his sleeve. A small scar stood out on his wrist. “I got this in Denver, about two years ago. Werewolf. I almost died, but I got it just in time. Not before I got this little guy right here, though,” he pointed at the scar, “The stupid thing wouldn’t go away, but I wouldn’t want it to. It means I’m a survivor. Those stretch marks on your stomach aren’t scars, but they mean that you’re a survivor, and that makes me love you all the more.”

You turned in his arms, facing him. “A survivor?” You wrapped your arms around his waist, pulling yourself closer until your front was pressed against his. “I like the sound of that.”

“Not just any survivor. You’re my survivor.” Dean smiled. You grinned back at him, he leaned down and kissed your lips softly, sweetly.

When he lifted his head, you reached up and kissed his cheek. “You’re my survivor too, Dean. Thank you.”

Dean smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and you smiled even wider when you noticed that his freckles were even more noticeable than they had been when he’d left for the hunt.

“You’ve been out in the sun,” you noted.

Nodding, Dean pressed another kiss to your lips, this time a more excited one. “Maybe,” he replied. “I don’t want to talk about my freckles right now, though.”

“But I like your freckles!” you giggled, squirming away when Dean tried to tug off your shirt. “They make you look so pretty!”

Dean’s eyes narrowed slightly as you edged your way towards the door. “We’re supposed to be talking about how pretty you are, Y/N.”

You hummed in response, grinning at him from the doorway. “We can do that later… Right now I want to go finish my book before you come distract me again!”

“Y/N! Come back here!” Dean called.

You were already halfway to the lounge where you’d left your book by the time he chased you caught up with you, and you laughed when his arms wrapped around you from behind, preventing you from going any further.

“Dean!” you laughed. “Let me go!”

“No way, Y/N,” Dean replied, his smile clear as day, despite the fact that you couldn’t even see his face. “I’ve got a lot of things to list off.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, I’ve got a list in my head of all the things that make you beautiful, and you’re about to hear all of them.”

Your face grew warm and you couldn’t help but smile at the thought of Dean thinking of you long enough to make a list like that. “I thought you didn’t like chick-flick moments?”

“Well, I’ll make an exception, but only for you.”

You smiled, glancing back over your shoulder at him. “I like the sound of that.”


End file.
